Several weeks after the destruction of the Dark Citadel, a lone girl travelled down a winding forest path on her noble steed. Her armour gleamed in the faded sunlight filtering through the canopy. The sound of birdsong rang through the air, a peaceful aftermath of her victory over the Dark Lord.

  She pulled a letter from her leather pouch, and re-read the elegant though scrambled script penned by her wizened mentor: “Seek out Wattyson in the Red Grove. Though rumours speak of eccentricity, He will be a valued ally on your quest in this post-Dark Lord world. Judge yourself of their worth.”

  Tucking the letter away, the girl adjusted her grip on the reins as the path continued into a dimly lit gde. There stood a modest cottage, plumes of smoke zily drifting from the chimney.

  She dismounted her steed, her boot nded with soft crunches.

  She called out “Hello? I am Arlene, the Chosen One.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “By recommendation of my mentor, I’ve come seeking Wattyson. Are you present? I wish to make your acquaintance!”

  Arlene rested her hand on the pommel of her longsword. She awaited a response, studying the cottage for any signs of life. She waited… and waited. An hour passed before she tried calling again.

  “Uhh… Hello? Is anyone present?” her eyes darted to the doorway and all windows of the cottage, to find any sign of life.

  “Hmm…” she hummed to herself and slowly strode to the doorway, her boots leaving cracking noises from the leaves below.

  Arlene was now positioned in front of the wooden door. It felt a tad imposing to her. She steadied herself with a deep breath. Her hand raised, her armour cnking lightly.

  “Alright” murmured to herself before she began knocking only for her to – Her forehead got smmed by the opened door.

  “Ow...” she whispered to herself, her fingers tracing her affected forehead. Her gaze lifted and saw the man with white hair, small hint of bck below. He was wearing a white robe with gold coloured accessories. In one of his hands was his staff almost the same height as he was with a crystal on top.

  “Hmm?” grunted the man as he noticed Arlene standing there in full armour pting, her fingers tracing her forehead.

  “Who’re you?” asked the man as his eyebrows raised, his expression tense. “If you’re here about the taxes, I’m not paying them. This cottage isn’t in any of the kingdoms’ border” continued the man with an annoyed tone.

  “Taxes?” asked Arlene, a bit perplexed. “No… No I’m not here about uhh taxes.”

  She composed herself, standing upright and resting her hand on the pommel.

  “I’m Arlene, the Chosen One. I’m here hoping to make an acquaintance with one named Wattyson.” Her eyes were sparkling, finally someone came out of the cottage.

  The man tilted his head, “What do you need this ‘Wattyson’ for?”

  He eyed the girl in front. Her blonde hair brushed above her shoulder. She wore a full breastpte, a white cape trailing just around her shins. Too young – maybe in her twenties. A light-colored tunic peeked out beneath her armor. This screamed out someone in the military came here to demand taxation or any other bureaucratic bullshit.

  Arlene looked down to her leather pouch, her hand moved quickly to take out the scroll. She unfolded it and showed him the content.

  “I’ve been advised by my wizened mentor to look for ‘Wattyson’. He may be crucial in my quests for this post-Dark Lord World!”

  The man squinted at the content before straightening. “Never heard of the guy” shrugged the man. “Beside… do you have any description on his looks?”

  “Oh yes!” replied Arlene as she attempted to recall. “My mentor said he’s… eccentric which is already noted in the script. Hmmm…” she tilted her head, pointing finger above her chin. “He has white hair, like to wear robe and has a sta-staff with an eagle design…” her voice trailed off as her brain finally clicked.

  In front of her was a man in white robe glittered in gold accessories, hair white though a bit grey now, and a staff with eagle near the top end. Her voice stammered after the revetion “You’re… You’re Wattyson!” She stomped her foot down lightly. She groaned “You could’ve just said so!”

  Wattyson shrugged it off, “I can’t just trust strangers. I don’t even know you!” Looking at the now flustered girl, noticing the tiredness in her movement, her clothes and armour a bit tattered. She must’ve travelled long. He sighed and opened the door wider. “Come in. I can interro- talk more after you’ve rested.”